


Smile

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Knuckle didn’t expect it to be so hard to get Shoot to smile." Knuckle sets himself a goal to get Shoot to open up and finds it more challenging than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile

Knuckle didn’t expect it to be so hard to get Shoot to smile.

It didn’t seem like an unreasonable goal when he first adopted it. He had intended it as a way to break the ice with Morel’s always-silent other student, proof to himself as much as to the endless fear in the other’s eyes that he’s nonthreatening, that he can be trusted, that they can be a  _team_. But an hour goes by, then a day, then a week, a whole string of days chasing each other until Knuckle is more frustrated by this failure than he has ever been by any mere physical defeat. 

It wouldn’t be so frustrating if Shoot were simply stoic, distant like Knov or distracted like Palm or just endlessly calm as Morel is. But it’s not calm that creases his forehead into constant concern, and it’s not distraction dark in his eyes when he looks at Knuckle, and it grates to know how  _terrified_  Shoot is of him. Knuckle wants to pick a fight, wants to prove to Shoot that he’s  _safe_ , that the taller man has nothing to fear from him and never has, but if merely standing too close to Shoot is enough to send him cowering sideways in expectation of a blow an offer to spar seems like a poor idea, to say the least.

“I don’t know how to talk to him!” Knuckle complains to Morel, finally, after two weeks of completely fruitless attempts to win a laugh or a smile or even a moment’s relaxation from Shoot’s ever-hunched shoulders. “What’m I supposed to do when he’s so  _scared_  of me? I didn’t even do anything to him.”

“It’s not about you,” Morel says, voice slow and heavy as the smoke of his  _Nen_. “Shoot’s scared of everything. It’s nothing personal.”

Knuckle groans by way of response and goes back to brainstorming nonthreatening methods of expressing friendship, since he’s apparently on his own in this.

It  _shouldn’t_  be this difficult. Knuckle is good with animals, knows how to make himself a beacon of comfort for any of the species he’s yet encountered, and calming a skittish human partner ought to be a simple task given his flexibility when it comes to others. But he’s tried everything -- lowering his voice to nearly a whisper, slouching his shoulders to make himself look as small as he can possibly manage, avoiding eye contact instead of his usual direct approach. Nothing works. Every time he risks a glance at Shoot the other man is eyeing him from under the shadow of his hair, his eyes wide and mouth tense like he’s ready to bolt at the least suggestion of surprise.

Knuckle’s patience runs through eventually. There’s nothing for it, he decides, and he resigns himself to the constant stress of coexisting with someone who obviously finds him unbearably threatening. It makes his days more exhausting -- Shoot’s anxiety seems to be contagious, catches in Knuckle’s blood until he’s just as jumpy as the other man -- but they’re Morel’s students together, and since Knuckle has no intention of quitting at this point in his studies he doesn’t have many options. So he stops trying to start conversation, does his best to ignore the edgy attention in his periphery, and if it doesn’t make him calmer at least he’s not wasting his time in pursuit of an impossible friendship.

It’s nearly a month after Shoot joins them that the inevitable happens and Morel sends them out on an assignment alone. Solo missions aren’t a big deal in and of themselves; Knuckle’s been on several over the last few years, until the novelty has given way to easy familiarity. But it’s the first one they’ve been on together, and whatever protest either of them might offer goes unsaid by mutual agreement. It’s a point in favor of their teamwork, Knuckle supposes, although that proves minimal comfort when they’re going into hour two of what proves to be a waiting game made unbearably tense by the anxiety oozing off Shoot like a miasma.

There’s any number of things Knuckle  _wants_  to do. He wants to shout, to dispel the tight-wound strain collecting all along his spine. He wants to grab Shoot by the front of his clothes, drag him into a fight and at least give him a  _reason_  for his panic. He wants to  _move_ , to run or punch or something,  _anything_  to loosen the knot of discomfort along his spine.

He doesn’t do any of these things. Instead he reaches for his bag, fishes out a packet of dried cherries, and if he opens it with more force than the action requires, well, he has to let his stress out on  _something_. The rustle of the bag is still quiet enough for stealth, and the fruit is sweet-sour on his tongue, the pleasure of the taste enough to keep his mind away from fretting at the stress in the air.

“What are those?”

Knuckle jumps. He doesn’t recognize the voice immediately, the whisper of the sound startling in the quiet; it’s not until he looks over that he sees Shoot watching him, pieces together the situation and realizes that the other is  _initiating conversation_.

“Cherries,” he says automatically, before he can think to ease the usual rough edge off his voice. Shoot flinches, his gaze dropping from Knuckle’s face, but he doesn’t turn away; his eyes land on the bag instead, the movement of Knuckle’s fingers as he reaches in for another handful. Knuckle hesitates; then he clears his throat and withdraws his hand to extend it cautiously an inch towards the other.

“Here.” It’s not a question -- Knuckle knows better than to make an offer that requires a response, when any communication with Shoot is so hard-won. Shoot recoils from the motion but Knuckle keeps his hand out. “Have some.”

Shoot’s eyes flicker up from Knuckle’s outstretched hand to his face, his shoulders still tipped away in wary consideration. It’s a long moment before his sleeve shifts, the angular fingers of his hand sliding free of the fabric so he can hold his palm out to catch the fruit Knuckle drops. Knuckle looks back at the bag immediately, giving Shoot the minimal privacy of not being stared at, but he’s hyperaware of the other’s movement, the way his sleeve shifts as he brings his hand to his mouth to try one of the cherries.

“Oh,” Shoot says, so softly Knuckle isn’t sure he’s meant to hear. “They’re good.”

Knuckle does chance a glance sideways, then. Shoot’s looking down at the fruit still in his palm, his expression wiped clean of its usual stress by surprise, but his eyes snap up as Knuckle looks, the dark color of them catching the other’s gaze.

And then Shoot smiles.

It’s a slow, careful thing, hesitant and shy as the hunch still lingering in his shoulders. It doesn’t change his face, doesn’t illuminate him from the inside or turn the awkward lines of his features suddenly beautiful as fiction would have it. It doesn’t need to. Knuckle feels its impact with the force of a hard-won victory, satisfaction flooding him with needless adrenaline, and he’s smiling too, grinning wide all over his face like Shoot’s pleasure is contagious in the air.

When Knuckle holds the bag of fruit out in offering, Shoot reaches to accept a handful instead of flinching back.


End file.
